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“Rosaries at the Grotto” A Chapter from my newly-published memoir, “Rosaries, Reading, Secrets: A Catholic Childhood in India.”

By Anita Mathias

My First Holy Communion

Rosaries at the Grotto

During May, “The Month of our Lady,” Father Jesus Calvo, the Spanish parish priest, corralled the entire Catholic community of Jamshedpur at the grotto of St. Mary’s Church: a cave constructed of rocks and mortar, overplanted with rambling roses, built because the Virgin appeared to Bernadette at a grotto in Lourdes. There we recited the rosary.

“Hail Mary,” “Holy Mary,” the words rose and fell, hypnotic as the sea, fifty repetitions of Hail Marys punctuated by the mini-relief of the Glory Be, and, at last, the Memorare, signalling the glorious end: “Remember, Oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided.”

My mother bowed over her rosary, her long-lashed eyes closed, an image of fervour. My father prayed rapidly, head down, frowning, as if his rapidity would hasten the conclusion. I suspected he disliked saying the rosary as much as I did.

 

Decades later, adults reminded me of when I slipped away, climbed to the top of the grotto, and squatted there, like a wise monkey, surveying the crowd. Giggles rose.

On hearing the giggles, my father looked for me. It was a reflex. And there I was, on top of the grotto, the eyes of every Catholic in Jamshedpur on me.

“Anita, come down,” my father hissed. I remained there, grinning. Despite my bravado, I was terrified of heights.

 

“Anita come down,’ he stage-whispered between clenched teeth as children giggled and adults chanted, laughter in their voices. Finally, my dignified father, senior management in that company town, fifty-two years old to my six, squeezed through the crowd, past the amputee Mrs Watkins, past Mr D’Costa, who owned Boulevard Hotel, and Mrs D’Cruz, who owned a nursery school, scaled the grotto, then inched down, half-carrying me, while around us the chuckle-flecked rosary rose and fell, “Hail Mary, full of grace.”

* * *

My Uncle Father Theo Mathias, S. J., my sister Shalini, me and my father

Catholic social life in Jamshedpur revolved around the Parish Church of St. Mary’s, the Mangalorean-Goan Association, and the Catholic Family Movement, introduced to Jamshedpur by an American Jesuit, appropriately called Father Love. It brought together Catholics of the same socio-economic class, an insular tight-knit group.

There were the Fernandezes, the Saldanhas, and the Diases, who had six children whose names all started with D—Denise, Dany, Diane, Dougie, Denzil, and David. There was an Anglo-Indian family, the Thompsons, whose green-eyed daughter, Paula, my sister Shalini adored down to her freckles, lily-white skin, and long, brown ringlets. My father claimed Shalini’s private litany went “Paula most pure, Paula most amiable, Paula most admirable!” (And when I misbehaved, my father would say of Paula’s handsome brother (who later became a priest), “Anita, Anita, if you’re so naughty, Jeff will never marry you, but he would marry Shalini instantly.”)

 

The adults gathered for spiritual instruction, about which we felt no curiosity, while the children played in the host child’s bedroom until everyone clustered around the potluck, an innovation of the American priests. The Indian way would have been for the hostess to say, “Oh, please don’t worry about bringing food. I’ll just prepare a little something,” and then spend a week planning, shopping for, and magicking a lavish near-banquet; most women prided themselves on their generosity, hospitality, and culinary repertoire.

Everyone competed to produce the most delectable dishes, savoured the offerings, and then asked for the recipe, ultimate compliment. Unless the dish was brought by Blanche, wife of the local Mangalorean doctor, Bert Lasrado, who, like my father, had been to England for his professional education. Blanche was the first woman in town with a free-standing freezer; its potential exhilarated her. While other women brought freshly cooked aromatic dishes, she gleefully announced the provenance of her offerings–prawn balchow: three months old; chicken indad: six months old; pork vindaloo: eight months old. And appetites withered.

The adults had Bloody Marys, while we had “Virgin Marys”–tomato juice, after which what we considered “western food” was served. As a student in England, to my surprise, I rarely found the supposedly Western food I had grown up with: “potato chops,” mashed potato croquettes stuffed with spicy minced beef, pan-fried in a batter of egg and breadcrumbs, or “cutlets,” large, flat burgers, cooked with onions, green chillis, coriander and mint; or “meat puffs,” crisp hot filo pastry stuffed with spicy curried minced lamb.

After dinner, Dougie Dias or Benny Fernandez produced guitars and led us in “Jamaica Farewell,” “Old Man River,” “Banana Boat Song,” or “Polly-Wolly-Doodle.” How we loved them–“Oh my darling Clementine,” “Silver Dollar,” “Country Roads”, or “Una Paloma Blanca.” The lyrics were mysterious, but we sang along, Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,/ Poor boy you’re gonna die; John Brown’s body is a-mouldering in the grave, or with greater gusto, Oh bloodee, oh blood-dah, that chorus striking us as deliciously naughty. The sun so hot, I froze to death; Susannah, don’t you cry. What did the lyrics mean? Who knew? But it all felt magical…Daylight come, and I wanna go home.

* * *

We once rented a beach house in Puri, Orissa, with the Diases, Thompsons, and other CFMers, one of whom brought his gun and shot doves, pigeons, and even sparrows, which we roasted over an improvised fire of bricks and sticks; the deliciousness lingers in memory. Their young son was allowed to use the shotgun, and I, aged six, seeing it left unattended, picked it up, looked through the sight, and, inspired by books and movies, pulled the trigger. The safety catch was off: Bang! I was startled and thrilled, though I did not shoot a bird (or myself). The father ran out and cuffed his son, and I felt scared, sad, and guilty, for it had all been my fault.

* * *

Shalini and me with our Easter Eggs

The Catholic Diocese of Jamshedpur was a missionary project of the Jesuit Maryland Province in Baltimore; it was run by hearty, good-hearted Irish American priests: Father McGauley, Fr. MacFarland, Fr. Guidera, Fr. Keogh, Fr. Moran, and Fr. O’Leary. There were other priests from the worldwide fraternity of the Jesuits–Father Durt, a Belgian who built St. Mary’s Hindi School for underprivileged children, and, on loan from the Spanish Gujarat Mission in Ahmedabad, Father Arroyo and Father Jesus Calvo, a kindly Spanish priest, who helped me develop a magnificent stamp collection by asking all the Europeans he knew to send me stamps.

The Jesuits were respected, even loved, by Jamshedpurians, both Catholic and non-Catholic, for they ran Loyola School, which turned out achieving boys, as well as the prestigious local Business School, Xavier Labour Relations Institute, XLRI, at which my father later taught, which had sought-after courses in Business Management and Industrial Relations which drew students from all over India, Asia, and the Middle East.

We had the American Jesuits over for meals and parties and were invited to dinners at the Jesuit residence. My father was amused to be told that, among Irish-American Catholics, one son became a priest, one became a cop, and one a criminal! My father marvelled when Father O’Brien told us of his father, the butcher, who distilled and sold moonshine in Baltimore during Prohibition. “Can you imagine, Anita? Father O’Brien is a butcher’s son!” (Indian Jesuits were, then, largely upper-middle or middle-class). “And his father, though a pious Catholic, had no compunction about breaking the law and making bootleg liquor!”

* * *

The priests returned from furlough with American brands—packets of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup, Smarties, Betty Crocker cake mixes, Danish Butter Cookies, squeezable tubes of icing sugar, or flavoured Primula cheese, coveted because foreign. These they gave their favourite Catholic housewives who compared their bounty, apparently carelessly, “Oh Father MacFarland is so sweet; he got me lovely Devil’s Food Cake mix,”–happy if their loot was the most bountiful and secretly cross about Lola or Deidre’s Angel Food Cake.

From America, too, came boxes of lightly used clothes collected for “the poor in India.” These the priests sold at jumble sales to middle-class Catholics, using the proceeds for the poor. Some of my favourite clothes came via America—my fuchsia winter coat and a red plaid coat with a fur collar for my Himalayan boarding school; a shimmering white silk blouse with pearl buttons that I passed off as boarding school uniform; a pale blue silk dress, and red goloshes.

From boxes of donated books shipped from America, I acquired books which, in my late teens, changed the course of my faith–and life: Catherine Marshall’s Beyond Ourselves and Something More, David Wilkerson’s The Cross and the Switchblade, and Nicky Cruz’s Run, Baby Run. The American priests, inexplicably, gave us boxes of old American magazines: Chatelaine, McCall’s, Family Home Circle, and Good Housekeeping, in which we found the recipe for brownies, chewy, cocoa-laden, and bursting with walnuts, adding a new much-imitated item on the party circuit. I leafed through the glossy pages, coveting dolls that walked and talked, dollhouses, and walkie-talkie radios that one could receive by just sending in a postcard–glossy magazines of dreams, never gratified, though my Jesuit Uncle, Father Theo Mathias, always bought me a Barbie doll on his annual trip to the States even into my early teens, when makeup was more exciting than dolls!

* * *

Goa and Mangalore, seacoast communities, were colonised by the Portuguese. Four hundred years later, traces endure–in the names: Mathias, Coelho, Lobo, Rebello, Pinto, Saldanha, Mascarenhas; the imported religion: Catholicism; and the language, Konkani: only spoken by Goans and Mangaloreans, a patois of Portuguese and the Kannada and Marathi spoken by the indigenous communities before colonisation. (I have never learnt Konkani, nor did my father who, as the son of an upwardly mobile surgeon in British India, was only taught English.)

Goan-Mangalorean food is distinctive–sarpatel, archetypal Mangalorean delicacy, small pieces of pork beneath inches of fat and chewy, rubbery rind, simmered in a sauce of spices, wine and the pig’s own blood and liver, eaten with sannas: fluffy steamed rice cakes, fermented in toddy. Kube, a curry of clams or cockles, was breakfast at my paternal grandmother’s house. Fish cooked in coconut milk was ubiquitous while, at afternoon tea, people ate patolio and patrade, dumplings and pancakes stuffed with fresh grated coconut and jaggery, unrefined brown sugar, and steamed in plantain leaves.

At the Mangalorean-Goan Association dinners, people danced the waltz, one-two together, one-two together, we murmured under our breaths, or the foxtrot and polka to Engelbert Humperdinck, Elvis Presley, or Jerry Lewis. If I spotted my parents waltzing together, I flung myself between them in a frenzy of jealousy, trying to drag my father away. They continued waltzing…laughing.

  • * * *

The Catholics from Mangalore, Goa, and Bombay traditionally visited all their Catholic friends during the twelve days between Christmas Day and the sixth of January, the feast of the Epiphany, the official end of the season.

Weeks before Christmas, my mother began creating traditional Christmas treats, kushwar in Konkani, offered to visitors, and given in little boxes to my father’s colleagues, nuns, teachers, priests, and friends. We made chocolate nankatis, mouth-meltingly soft, buttery, sugary cookies; light, crisp meringues; and crunchy coconut, chocolate, or cashew nut macaroons. Kulkuls were another Mangalorean speciality, dough curled on the tines of a comb into shells, deep-fried, then dropped into a thick, simmering sugar syrup, which lumpily congealed around them. Sitting together around the dining table, we hand-crafted marzipan fruits and moulded “milk toffee,” made from condensed milk, sugar, and butter in our buttered red rubber seashell mould to create wentletrap, shrimp, cockles, mussels, seahorses, oysters, and snails.

* * *

How foreign Christmas was when I was a child, how imported! We lopped the top off one of the two scraggly fir trees in our garden, hauling it indoors to deck it with cotton wool or popcorn snow, topped with a little pinecone angel with a wooden mothball face, flaxen hair, a gold wire halo, and little gold paper wings that I brought back from boarding school in Nainital, in the Himalayas. (And each year, my mother said of this durable angel, “I can’t believe you paid five rupees at the Fun Fair for that rubbish some child made.”) We sent each other Christmas cards of robins in snowy fields and sleighs in an entranced Snow Queen landscape, though the wintry sun shone all December, as it might have done in Bethlehem. We carolled outside all Catholic homes: “Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer;” “Freddy, the Little Fir Tree;” “Little Drummer Boy,” and “Jingle Bells”—a Nordic Christmas transplanted to the tropics.

At midnight mass, congregations, not all of whom spoke fluent English, sang a full-bodied Gloria in Excelsis Deo in Latin. I shivered with pleasure. And then we returned home to eat Christmas fruit cake, crammed with crystallised cherries, candied peel, raisins, and nuts, and to drink the very sweet homemade wine made from Jamun berries and mulberries from our garden that we never considered alcoholic.

And what did all this have to do with the sweet, humble birth in a manger? Generations of Europeans had transported the husk of Christmas to Indian homes while its glory lay obscured here as elsewhere. Still, Glor-ooo-ooo-ooo-reeaa in ex-cel-sis Deo, we sang lustily, though we might have been nonplussed if asked to translate.

Rosaries, Reading, Secrets is available on Amazon.co.uk and on Amazon.com  and wherever Amazon sells books, as well as in most online retailers.

Filed Under: A Catholic Childhood in India, Reading, Rosaries, Secrets, Secrets : A Catholic Childhood in India, Secrets: A Catholic Childhood in India Tagged With: Catholic, Catholic Family Movement, Christmas in India, Goans, Jamshedpur, Kushwar, Mangaloreans, Rosary

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anita.mathias

My memoir: Rosaries, Reading, Secrets https://amzn.to/42xgL9t
Oxford, England. Writer, memoirist, podcaster, blogger, Biblical meditation teacher, mum

Hi Friends, I have taped a meditation; do listen a Hi Friends, I have taped a meditation; do listen at this link: https://anitamathias.com/2025/04/08/the-kingdom-of-god-is-here-already-yet-not-yet-here-2/
It’s on the Kingdom of God, of which Christ so often spoke, which is here already—a mysterious, shimmering internal palace in which, in lightning flashes, we experience peace and joy, and yet, of course, not yet fully here. We sense the rainbowed presence of Christ in the song which pulses through creation. Christ strolls into our rooms with his wisdom and guidance, and things change. Our prayers are answered; we are healed; our hearts are strangely warmed. Sometimes.
And yet, we also experience evil within & all around us. Our own sin which can shatter our peace and the trajectory of our lives. And the sins of the world—its greed, dishonesty and environmental destruction.
But in this broken world, we still experience the glory of creation; “coincidences” which accelerate once we start praying, and shalom which envelops us like sudden sunshine. The portals into this Kingdom include repentance, gratitude, meditative breathing, and absolute surrender.
The Kingdom of God is here already. We can experience its beauty, peace and joy today through the presence of the Holy Spirit. But yet, since, in the Apostle Paul’s words, we do not struggle only “against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the unseen powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil,” its fullness still lingers…
Our daughter Zoe was ordained into the Church of E Our daughter Zoe was ordained into the Church of England in June. I have been on a social media break… but … better late than never. Enjoy!
First picture has my sister, Shalini, who kindly flew in from the US. Our lovely cousins Anthony and Sarah flank Zoe in the next picture.
The Bishop of London, Sarah Mullaly, ordained Zoe. You can see her praying that Zoe will be filled with the Holy Spirit!!
And here’s a meditation I’ve recorded, which you might enjoy. The link is also in my profile
https://anitamathias.com/2024/11/07/all-those-who-exalt-themselves-will-be-humbled-the-humble-will-be-exalted/
I have taped a meditation on Jesus statement in Ma I have taped a meditation on Jesus statement in Matthew 23, “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Do listen here. https://anitamathias.com/2024/11/07/all-those-who-exalt-themselves-will-be-humbled-the-humble-will-be-exalted/
Link also in bio.
And so, Jesus states a law of life. Those who broadcast their amazingness will be humbled, since God dislikes—scorns that, as much as people do.  For to trumpet our success, wealth, brilliance, giftedness or popularity is to get distracted from our life’s purpose into worthless activity. Those who love power, who are sure they know best, and who must be the best, will eventually be humbled by God and life. For their focus has shifted from loving God, doing good work, and being a blessing to their family, friends, and the world towards impressing others, being enviable, perhaps famous. These things are houses built on sand, which will crumble when hammered by the waves of old age, infirmity or adversity. 
God resists the proud, Scripture tells us—those who crave the admiration and power which is His alone. So how do we resist pride? We slow down, so that we realise (and repent) when sheer pride sparks our allergies to people, our enmities, our determination to have our own way, or our grandiose ego-driven goals, and ambitions. Once we stop chasing limelight, a great quietness steals over our lives. We no longer need the drug of continual achievement, or to share images of glittering travel, parties, prizes or friends. We just enjoy them quietly. My life is for itself & not for a spectacle, Emerson wrote. And, as Jesus advises, we quit sharp-elbowing ourselves to sit with the shiniest people, but are content to hang out with ordinary people; and then, as Jesus said, we will inevitably, eventually, be summoned higher to the sparkling conversation we craved. 
One day, every knee will bow before the gentle lamb who was slain, now seated on the throne. We will all be silent before him. Let us live gently then, our eyes on Christ, continually asking for his power, his Spirit, and his direction, moving, dancing, in the direction that we sense him move.
Link to new podcast in Bio https://anitamathias.co Link to new podcast in Bio https://anitamathias.com/2024/02/20/how-jesus-dealt-with-hostility-and-enemies/
3 days before his death, Jesus rampages through the commercialised temple, overturning the tables of moneychangers. Who gave you the authority to do these things? his outraged adversaries ask. And Jesus shows us how to answer hostile questions. Slow down. Breathe. Quick arrow prayers!
Your enemies have no power over your life that your Father has not permitted them. Ask your Father for wisdom, remembering: Questions do not need to be answered. Are these questioners worthy of the treasures of your heart? Or would that be feeding pearls to hungry pigs, who might instead devour you?
Questions can contain pitfalls, traps, nooses. Jesus directly answered just three of the 183 questions he was asked, refusing to answer some; answering others with a good question.
But how do we get the inner calm and wisdom to recognise
and sidestep entrapping questions? Long before the day of
testing, practice slow, easy breathing, and tune in to the frequency of the Father. There’s no record of Jesus running, rushing, getting stressed, or lacking peace. He never spoke on his own, he told us, without checking in with the Father. So, no foolish, ill-judged statements. Breathing in the wisdom of the Father beside and within him, he, unintimidated, traps the trappers.
Wisdom begins with training ourselves to slow down and ask
the Father for guidance. Then our calm minds, made perceptive, will help us recognise danger and trick questions, even those coated in flattery, and sidestep them or refuse to answer.
We practice tuning in to heavenly wisdom by practising–asking God questions, and then listening for his answers about the best way to do simple things…organise a home or write. Then, we build upwards, asking for wisdom in more complex things.
Listening for the voice of God before we speak, and asking for a filling of the Spirit, which Jesus calls streams of living water within us, will give us wisdom to know what to say, which, frequently, is nothing at all. It will quieten us with the silence of God, which sings through the world, through sun and stars, sky and flowers.
Especially for @ samheckt Some very imperfect pi Especially for @ samheckt 
Some very imperfect pictures of my labradoodle Merry, and golden retriever Pippi.
And since, I’m on social media, if you are the meditating type, here’s a scriptural meditation on not being afraid, while being prudent. https://anitamathias.com/2024/01/03/do-not-be-afraid-but-do-be-prudent/
A new podcast. Link in bio https://anitamathias.c A new podcast. Link in bio
https://anitamathias.com/2024/01/03/do-not-be-afraid-but-do-be-prudent/
Do Not Be Afraid, but Do Be Prudent
“Do not be afraid,” a dream-angel tells Joseph, to marry Mary, who’s pregnant, though a virgin, for in our magical, God-invaded world, the Spirit has placed God in her. Call the baby Jesus, or The Lord saves, for he will drag people free from the chokehold of their sins.
And Joseph is not afraid. And the angel was right, for a star rose, signalling a new King of the Jews. Astrologers followed it, threatening King Herod, whose chief priests recounted Micah’s 600-year-old prophecy: the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem, as Jesus had just been, while his parents from Nazareth registered for Augustus Caesar’s census of the entire Roman world. 
The Magi worshipped the baby, offering gold. And shepherds came, told by an angel of joy: that the Messiah, a saviour from all that oppresses, had just been born.
Then, suddenly, the dream-angel warned: Flee with the child to Egypt. For Herod plans to kill this baby, forever-King.
Do not be afraid, but still flee? Become a refugee? But lightning-bolt coincidences verified the angel’s first words: The magi with gold for the flight. Shepherds
telling of angels singing of coming inner peace. Joseph flees.
What’s the difference between fear and prudence? Fear is being frozen or panicked by imaginary what-ifs. It tenses our bodies; strains health, sleep and relationships; makes us stingy with ourselves & others; leads to overwork, & time wasted doing pointless things for fear of people’s opinions.
Prudence is wisdom-using our experience & spiritual discernment as we battle the demonic forces of this dark world, in Paul’s phrase.It’s fighting with divinely powerful weapons: truth, righteousness, faith, Scripture & prayer, while surrendering our thoughts to Christ. 
So let’s act prudently, wisely & bravely, silencing fear, while remaining alert to God’s guidance, delivered through inner peace or intuitions of danger and wrongness, our spiritual senses tuned to the Spirit’s “No,” his “Slow,” his “Go,” as cautious as a serpent, protected, while being as gentle as a lamb among wolves.
Link to post with podcast link in Bio or https://a Link to post with podcast link in Bio or https://anitamathias.com/2023/09/22/dont-walk-away-from-jesus-but-if-you-do-he-still-looks-at-you-and-loves-you/
Jesus came from a Kingdom of voluntary gentleness, in which
Christ, the Lion of Judah, stands at the centre of the throne in the guise of a lamb, looking as if it had been slain. No wonder his disciples struggled with his counter-cultural values. Oh, and we too!
The mother of the Apostles James and John, asks Jesus for a favour—that once He became King, her sons got the most important, prestigious seats at court, on his right and left. And the other ten, who would have liked the fame, glory, power,limelight and honour themselves are indignant and threatened.
Oh-oh, Jesus says. Who gets five talents, who gets one,
who gets great wealth and success, who doesn’t–that the
Father controls. Don’t waste your one precious and fleeting
life seeking to lord it over others or boss them around.
But, in his wry kindness, he offers the ambitious twelve
and us something better than the second or third place.
He tells us how to actually be the most important person to
others at work, in our friend group, social circle, or church:Use your talents, gifts, and energy to bless others.
And we instinctively know Jesus is right. The greatest people in our lives are the kind people who invested in us, guided us and whose wise, radiant words are engraved on our hearts.
Wanting to sit with the cleverest, most successful, most famous people is the path of restlessness and discontent. The competition is vast. But seek to see people, to listen intently, to be kind, to empathise, and doors fling wide open for you, you rare thing!
The greatest person is the one who serves, Jesus says. Serves by using the one, two, or five talents God has given us to bless others, by finding a place where our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet. By writing which is a blessing, hospitality, walking with a sad friend, tidying a house.
And that is the only greatness worth having. That you yourself,your life and your work are a blessing to others. That the love and wisdom God pours into you lives in people’s hearts and minds, a blessing
https://anitamathias.com/.../dont-walk-away-from-j https://anitamathias.com/.../dont-walk-away-from-jesus.../
Sharing this podcast I recorded last week. LINK IN BIO
So Jesus makes a beautiful offer to the earnest, moral young man who came to him, seeking a spiritual life. Remarkably, the young man claims that he has kept all the commandments from his youth, including the command to love one’s neighbour as oneself, a statement Jesus does not challenge.
The challenge Jesus does offers him, however, the man cannot accept—to sell his vast possessions, give the money to the poor, and follow Jesus encumbered.
He leaves, grieving, and Jesus looks at him, loves him, and famously observes that it’s easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to live in the world of wonders which is living under Christ’s kingship, guidance and protection. 
He reassures his dismayed disciples, however, that with God even the treasure-burdened can squeeze into God’s kingdom, “for with God, all things are possible.”
Following him would quite literally mean walking into a world of daily wonders, and immensely rich conversation, walking through Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan, quite impossible to do with suitcases and backpacks laden with treasure. 
For what would we reject God’s specific, internally heard whisper or directive, a micro-call? That is the idol which currently grips and possesses us. 
Not all of us have great riches, nor is money everyone’s greatest temptation—it can be success, fame, universal esteem, you name it…
But, since with God all things are possible, even those who waver in their pursuit of God can still experience him in fits and snatches, find our spirits singing on a walk or during worship in church, or find our hearts strangely warmed by Scripture, and, sometimes, even “see” Christ stand before us. 
For Christ looks at us, Christ loves us, and says, “With God, all things are possible,” even we, the flawed, entering his beautiful Kingdom.
https://anitamathias.com/2023/09/07/how-to-find-th https://anitamathias.com/2023/09/07/how-to-find-the-freedom-of-forgiveness/
How to Find the Freedom of Forgiveness
Letting go on anger and forgiving is both an emotional transaction & a decision of the will. We discover we cannot command our emotions to forgive and relinquish anger. So how do we find the space and clarity of forgiveness in our mind, spirit & emotions?
When tormenting memories surface, our cortisol, adrenaline, blood pressure, and heart rate all rise. It’s good to take a literally quick walk with Jesus, to calm this neurological and physiological storm. And then honestly name these emotions… for feelings buried alive never die.
Then, in a process called “the healing of memories,” mentally visualise the painful scene, seeing Christ himself there, his eyes brimming with compassion. Ask Christ to heal the sting, to draw the poison from these memories of experiences. We are caterpillars in a ring of fire, as Martin Luther wrote--unable to rescue ourselves. We need help from above.
Accept what happened. What happened, happened. Then, as the Apostle Paul advises, give thanks in everything, though not for everything. Give thanks because God can bring good out of the swindle and the injustice. Ask him to bring magic and beauty from the ashes.
If, like the persistent widow Jesus spoke of, you want to pray for justice--that the swindler and the abusers’ characters are revealed, so many are protected, then do so--but first, purify your own life.
And now, just forgive. Say aloud, I forgive you for … You are setting a captive free. Yourself. Come alive. Be free. 
And when memories of deep injuries arise, say: “No. No. Not going there.” Stop repeating the devastating story to yourself or anyone else. Don’t waste your time & emotional energy, nor let yourself be overwhelmed by anger at someone else’s evil actions. Don’t let the past poison today. Refuse to allow reinjury. Deliberately think instead of things noble, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy.
So keep trying, in obedience, to forgive, to let go of your anger until you suddenly realise that you have forgiven, and can remember past events without agitation. God be with us!
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